


Beforehand

by JacAlley



Series: Miracle [1]
Category: National Football League RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: "Brady" is a verb, 2014 Postseason, Alcohol, Geno is having none of it, M/M, Mark is a mouthy little douchebag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacAlley/pseuds/JacAlley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark’s sudden proximity flooded Geno’s nose with the strong scents of 151 and Calvin Klein, two things Geno associated with Mark more than anything else, even more than his crazy-judgmental glares and Jets green.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beforehand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annalore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annalore/gifts).



> I wrote this for annalore for Christmas. She then beta'd for me. First in a trilogy. The other two correspond to later periods in the postseason, and will be published accordingly.
> 
> You'll need to suspend some disbelief about the events that occur in this series. Like records and trades. 
> 
> Have some Jets QB porn.

_16-0._

_**** _

Geno couldn’t believe they’d gone 16-0.

****

Neither could the rest of the country, probably the rest of the fucking world if they knew jackshit about football.

****

But they had.

****

The media had already dubbed it the “Miracle Season” after last year’s 8-8, and it was on Geno to ensure that they made it through the playoffs. That come February, there would be a ticker-tape parade through the streets of Manhattan. That they would all have rings on their fingers.

****

He wasn’t going to Brady this. Not for the world. Geno was taking his ass to Disney World, fuck everyone else, and he was going to get 19-0 tattoo _on_ it when he did.

****

He and the rest of the guys had spent the night tearing Hoboken up. Geno had girls’ numbers written across his absin silver fucking Sharpie (“You’re sooooo chocolatey! We need a silver or you’ll never read it!”) that Simms had graciously run across the way to Rite-Aid to retrieve (Matty was the best wingman ever, hands down). He had salt crusting over in places he didn’t want to think about. He'd taken more body shots than he cared to count off of girls he was fairly certain he recognized from Maxim. It would have been impolite not to return the favor. So yeah. He was pretty fucking drunk and pretty fucking happy.

****

It was the greatest night he’d had in the NFL...so far.

****

It was well past last call when Matt had come over, voice soft, and told Geno it was time to go. At that point, Geno had been far too smiley, far too pliant, to argue. Not that he would have. Matt was the shit.

****

Matt drove him to his townhouse in Chatham, made sure he had his keys, and even offered to walk him up to the door. But Geno had sobered up a little in the freezing December air (fuck Jersey) and told Matt he was fine to head in by himself.

****

When he got to his walkaway, he wished he had let Matt come. Because as Matt pulled away and drove off, and Geno came past the row of squat hedges separating his front yard from the driveway, Geno saw Mark Sanchez sitting shivering on his stoop.

****

He stopped short. Any smiley, pliant feelings he had left from the Patrón quickly dissipated.

****

Mark looked up at the sound of Geno’s shoes scraping against the rock salt on the path. His nose and the tops of his ears were red. He wasn’t even wearing a scarf, just a black wool pea coat that was meant more for fashion than warmth. He stared at Geno, but without his usual, beaming smile. The one that had made more than a few girls’ panties _literally_ drop at clubs just like the one Geno had been in tonight. This look was something totally different. More...Geno wasn’t sure, but Mark’s mouth was tight. Anxious.

****

“G.” Mark stood up, but didn’t move from the step.

****

Geno felt his brow furrow, but pulled himself together enough to appear cordial. “Mark. Hey, how are you doing, man?” He stuck his hand out for Mark to shake, but Mark barely glanced at it.

****

“Honestly, man?” Mark raked a hand down his face. “Pretty shitty.”

****

Geno’s hand dropped. “Mark…”

****

“No. I just came here to say this, and then I’m gonna go.”

****

Geno frowned. “What do you have to say?”

****

Mark took a deep breath. “I just-” he coughed, “Jesus, fuck,” Mark rubbed his hands together. “Can we go inside? I’ve been waiting for you since one...”

****

One? It was well after three at this point. The Mark that Geno knew didn’t have that kind of patience, not usually. The idea that whatever he had to say was that important made Geno feel even more off kilter than Mark being here in the first place. It was so...surreal. (And just because he knew he could walk and manipulate his keys well enough to make it inside didn’t mean the whooshing sound in his head was gone yet. Stupid fucking tequila.)

****

“That depends on what you have to say to me.”

****

Mark’s face turned hard in an instant. “I won’t say shit if you don’t let me inside, Smith.”

****

Geno felt a million walls slide into place and lock themselves there, guarding him against Mark’s bullshit and preparing him for a fight.

****

Fuck cordial.

****

Geno stepped aside on the path, and gestured that it was clear for Mark to leave. “Don’t slip.”

****

Mark crossed the path and was in Geno’s face before he knew what was going on. “Let me inside. This won’t take long.”

****

Mark’s sudden proximity flooded Geno’s nose with the strong scents of 151 and Calvin Klein, two things Geno associated with Mark more than anything else, even more than his crazy-judgmental glares and Jets green.

****

Mark swayed slightly, grabbing onto Geno’s coat to steady himself. Geno felt a bit of relief that he wasn’t the only one coming into this at a disadvantage. He grabbed Mark’s hands -- his dry, freezing hands -- and pulled them down, letting them go at Mark’s sides.

****

“One,” Geno told him, holding a single finger in Mark’s view, “get out of my face. Two,” he added another, “I don’t give a fuck if you’re drunk or if you’re _dying_ , keep your hands off me.” He dropped his hand altogether, folded his arms across his chest. “And three? Don’t tell me what the fuck to do, Sanchez. That isn’t your job. That was _never_ your job.” He stepped up the path, and shot back over his shoulder: “If you can handle that, you can follow me.”

****

Geno heard Mark mutter under his breath about spoiled brats (seriously?), and rolled his eyes as he stepped up on the stoop, nearly tripping over Mark’s open bottle. He turned and glared at Mark. “And clean up your shit too,” he growled, before turning and fitting the key in the lock.

****

His living room was dark and warm, heat hitting him and making his cheeks tingle with the sudden change in temperature. He toed off his shoes at the door, and made his way to the kitchen. He didn’t bother stopping to see if Mark had followed as he made his way to the sleek black and chrome kitchen. He heard the front door slam shut, and it was all the confirmation he needed. He flipped on the lights and peeled himself out of his coat and scarf, hanging them on their appropriate hooks.

****

Geno turned and found Mark leaning on the shared wall of the kitchen and living room. In the stark light, Geno noticed the dark circles under Mark’s eyes. He almost felt bad.

****

Almost.

****

“What do you need to say Sanchez?”

****

Mark smirked, bringing the bottle he’d retrieved from the step to his lips and taking a quick swig. “Nice place you got here, G. How’s it feel to be spending my salary, hm?”

****

Geno rolled his eyes at the bravado, shook his head, went to the fridge, and pulled out a bottle of water. “ _Your_ salary?” he asked, letting the fridge fall shut on its own. He cracked the bottle open and sipped some, placing it on the counter. He paused, as if he really wasn’t sure what Mark was talking about. “Oh! You mean the one you never earned up here and the one you’re getting half of now?” He turned back to Mark and returned the smirk.

****

Mark glared. “Real funny, G. You’re real funny.”

****

“I know I am. I don’t need you telling me about it. I live the hilarity every day.” He wasn’t sure if he was still talking about being funny, or if what he’d just said made any sense at all, but it sounded okay and that was all that really mattered in a situation like this.

****

Mark smiled, a hard, twisted shell of the normal thing. “Look, G. I came here to tell you that when I play you in Glendale, I’m walking out MVP. So don’t get too comfortable with the idea that you guys have this in the bag.” Mark took another sip from his bottle. “Just thought I’d come and prepare you now. Give you time to let it sink in.”

****

Geno snorted. “Rich, Sanchez. Considering the fact that you probably won’t even make it past Wild Card Weekend…”

****

Mark shook his head, face twisting into something cocksure and unattractive. Something Geno hated. “I will. I’m gonna go all the way. And then I plan on FedEx-ing each and every one of you cocksuckers a bag of my Super Bowl-winning shit.”

****

Anger flared up in Geno’s belly, washing through him, sobering him up, making him braver than he really was. “Mark, you’re only going to the playoffs because the rest of your conference somehow managed to have their shit _less_ together than you, which is the true miracle this season, by far. I just don’t know how anyone could be a bigger screw up than you, but somehow they all managed it. So congratulations on sucking the _least_ in the NFC South. What an accomplishment,” Geno clapped for him. “It must have been really rewarding.”

****

Mark stepped toward him.“How dare y-”

 

Geno held up his hands. “Nah, Mark. You said what you needed to. So why don’t you get your salty ass the fuck out of my house, get on a plane back to Tampa, crawl back into whatever hole it was you crawled out of to pay me this visit, and _pray_ for another fucking miracle. That’s what it’s going to take for you to ever win a playoff game, let alone the Super Bowl, you scumbag motherfucker.”

****

Mark stared at Geno, silent, face blank. It went on for a long moment, and with each second that ticked by, Geno felt more uneasy. Then he began to feel guilty because, _shit_ , talk about bravado. “Mark…”

****

“That was harsh, G.” Mark’s voice was small, something Geno had only heard on rare occasions. Horrible, rare occasions.

****

“I know...I’m sorry.”

****

Mark nodded. “I…”

****

Mark crossed the room so quickly that Geno flinched, and flinched a second time at the sound of Mark’s forgotten bottle hitting the floor where he’d stood, rum spilling out everywhere on the polished marble. Mark was crowding him, in his face again.

****

“You really think that about me, Smith? Think I’m a scumbag motherfucker?”

****

“Mark-”

****

“No! Answer the question.”

****

Geno thought for a second. “You’ve been known to act like one.”

****

Mark laughed. “What an answer. From the kid who went 16-0! Not only are you fantastic at football now, you apparently got clever. Jesus Christ.”

****

Geno took a step back. “You need to get out of my face, Mark. I already told you.”

****

Mark stepped in even closer, his chest to Geno’s. “Do something about it, hm?”

****

Geno shoved him. It was a light thing, but that didn’t stop Mark from launching himself at Geno. Mark’s body hit his with enough force that Geno’s back stung where it met the counter, and he yelped. He went to bring his fists to Mark’s chest, to push him off, but Mark grabbed them and pinned them painfully at his sides. The edge of the marble dug into his wrists.

****

“Get the fuck off, Mark. I swear to fucking God-”

****

“Shut the fuck up, Geno! Just shut up!”

****

“Mark, get off me!”

****

Mark looked down at him, eyes crazed with the rush of getting one over on Geno. “No. I won’t. We’re going to stay like this until you stop being disrespectful, kid.”

****

“Cold day in hell, Sanchez, I’m fucking telling you-”

****

“Geno, I told you to shut the fuck up!”

“When have I ever done what you told-”

****

Geno’s head bounced off a cabinet as Mark’s lips crushed his. He was caught off guard, breathless, and only managed to get air when Mark pulled away to bite along his jaw.

****

“Mark, what the-” he groaned as Mark sank his teeth into the flesh of his neck, let go of Geno’s arms.

****

Mark’s lips were against his ear. “Missed you,” his chest heaved against Geno’s, “missed you so much.”

****

And yeah, okay, in a weird way, Geno had missed this stupid piece of shit too.

****

Geno’s hands found their way to the buttons of Mark’s jacket, fumbled to undo them as one of Mark’s hands -- still chilled -- made its way into the back of Geno’s pants. He got his hands into Mark’s coat, under his black button-down, and felt Mark’s breath falter against his cheek when his hands met bare skin.

****

“G, get me out of this.”

****

Geno pulled back a little, pulling his hands out from under Mark’s shirt and sliding them between the shirt and Mark’s coat, pushing the coat down Mark’s arms. Mark shrugged the rest of the way out of it, letting it fall off and pool on the floor behind him. The breeze it forced sent more of Mark’s cologne at Geno, making his head swim. Mark let go of Geno long enough to get his hands on his own shirt, quickly working at buttons and pulling that off too.

****

Geno had just enough time to take a breath, to right himself. He reached out and grabbed Mark by the waist, pulled him back in, ran a hand up his bare back. Mark kissed him hard and quick, found the hem of Geno’s sweater, and broke away just long enough to get it over Geno’s head.

****

They shared a moment of tense eye contact before Mark sank to his knees in front of him. Geno’s stomach bottomed out.

****

Mark’s hands ran over Geno’s torso, over the Sharpie-written numbers and girls’ names. Geno watched the emotions wash over Mark’s face: the curiosity, the comprehension, the anger, the slow-growing amusement. They both knew Geno intended to scrub them off the first chance he got. Mark leaned forward and nipped at Geno’s flesh. “Look at this. All these fucking sluts. They’ll never know, will they Geno? Never know how much you love my fucking cock, will they?”

****

Geno couldn’t answer, didn’t need to, just wound his hand into Mark’s hair, tugged at it even though it was short right now, barely curling. Mark unbuckled Geno’s belt and got his fly undone, pulling his pants down over his legs, biting at Geno’s thighs while he worked everything off.

****

“Mark-”

****

“Shut up. Be patient.” Mark’s voice was muffled as he mouthed up the inside of Geno’s thigh, finally nuzzling at his balls and sucking at the underside of his cock. Geno almost lost it right then, and gripped the counter so hard he was certain it would leave a permanent line where the heel of his hand dug into the edge. Mark and his fucking lips. Geno loved a million things about Mark’s body, but his lips were the most dangerous, always teasing embarrassing noises out of Geno without doing much of anything.

****

Mark managed to get his mouth on every intimate part of Geno, except where Geno really wanted it. Geno tugged at Mark’s hair, but Mark just laughed against Geno’s hip and looked up at him. “Yes?”

“Blow me.”

****

Mark shook his head. “I said to be patient.”

****

“Mark.” Geno was disgusted by the way he whined out his name. But he really didn’t care. Man was a fucking blowjob god.

****

“Shh,” Mark answered, finally -- _finally_ \-- wrapping his lips around him.

****

Geno tightened his hold on Mark’s hair and leaned back a bit, knowing this was going to get intense. Mark may not have been the greatest quarterback Geno had ever met, but he did give the best blowjob Geno had ever had. And Geno liked to think he’d had a lot of quality -- and not-so-quality -- blowjobs in his 24 years, thank you very much.

****

Mark was careless and fast, and something about that always did it for Geno. He knew Mark gave zero fucks what he looked like doing this. He was sure he could look down at any second, at any point during this, and Mark would look fantastic, not a hint of self-consciousness anywhere to be found.

****

He couldn’t help doing just that. Mark was staring up at him, sinking almost all the way down Geno’s cock with every bob of his head. Geno knew Mark wasn’t looking for his praise; the creep got off on watching other people get off. That fucking simple. Mark dug his nails into Geno’s ass, pulling him closer, and Geno groaned when Mark pulled off, his cock bouncing from the force, Mark’s spit dripping everywhere.

****

Mark reached up and took him in hand, stroking quickly, hand sliding easily along his wet length. Mark brought Geno’s cock up to his mouth again and took only the head in, alternating between swirling his tongue and applying so much suction that Geno cried out and had to pull him off.

****

“Stop. I’m gonna come.”

****

Mark smirked and stood back up. “Isn’t that the point?”

****

Geno shook his head. “Don’t wanna come yet.”

****

Mark brushed a hand over Geno’s ass. “You want more?”

****

Geno nodded and pulled him in close. His dick ground up against the stiff fabric of Mark’s jeans, wetting them with Mark’s own saliva.

****

Mark laughed. “You’re such a slut, G. Only want to come with me in you, don’t you?”

****

Geno didn’t answer him either way. But, yeah. That was preferable.

****

Mark grabbed Geno’s hands and brought them to his belt because, shit, Mark couldn’t fuck him with pants on. Geno undid the button and fly and pulled them down a bit before Mark stepped back to toe off his shoes, pushing his pants (of course he was going commando, Geno didn’t know why he had expected otherwise -- Mark was the biggest fucking slut _he_ knew) most of the way down, before lifting each leg separately to get his socks and pants off in one go. The awkward hop Mark had to execute to keep his balance _really_ shouldn’t have made Geno’s cock twitch as hard as it did, but Geno had found weirder things hotter in the past.

****

Like Mark in his entirety.

****

He crowded back in around Geno, and Geno got a hold of Mark’s cock, stroking him slowly. Mark groaned, dropping his head onto Geno’s shoulder. Mark stayed there for a second, and Geno worked him a little tighter, a little quicker, running a hand down the outside of Mark’s thigh. The muscle there jumped at the sensation and Geno smirked, pleased. Mark kissed along his shoulder and up his neck, hands finding his hips, and he lifted Geno onto the counter, wedging himself between Geno’s legs.

****

Geno let him go in anticipation and watched as Mark leaned across him, slamming the faucet on and quickly soaking his hand in water, before using his other hand to lift one of Geno’s legs up. Mark turned the tap off, and abruptly shoved a fingertip into Geno before he even realized it was happening. Geno tensed. The water was nearly fucking useless, other than being a shock of cold in him. He was pretty sure Mark knew it and simply didn’t care. Mark kissed him again, and worked his finger a little further in.

****

Geno pulled away. “Mark…”

****

“It’s this or cooking oil. Your choice.” Mark’s voice was a little dangerous, a little crazed. Geno wasn’t going to fight him when he sounded that way, like he might actually shove his fingers up Geno’s ass coated in olive oil.

****

Mark’s lips were suddenly all over Geno’s throat, distracting him, and he murmured against his skin. “So tight, G. No one but me?”

****

Geno couldn’t manage an answer as the rest of Mark’s finger sunk into him. All too quickly, a second finger flirted with Geno’s hole, but did nothing as Mark looked right into Geno’s eyes. “No one. No one but me.”

****

Geno nodded, wanted to tell him he was a moron for thinking otherwise -- Geno didn’t fuck just anyone, let alone any guy other than Mark -- and grabbed Mark by the cheeks, pulling him in for a sloppy kiss. Mark barely kissed him back, and when Geno nearly gave up and pulled away, Mark kissed him slowly, languidly, right as he pushed his second finger all the way in. He swallowed Geno’s moan and immediately began wiggling his fingers around, making little revolutions that drove Geno nuts. Mark stilled his thrusts, twisted his hand to where he wanted it, and started rubbing, searching-

****

“Mark!” Geno yelped.

****

Mark smirked and rested his forehead against Geno’s. “Yeah?”

****

“Hurry up. Fuck me.”

****

Mark laughed. “Shh, I’ve got it.”

****

He worked at Geno, sliding in the start of a third finger, when Geno shook his head. “Now. Now, I-”

****

Mark pulled his fingers out of Geno, and took a step back. He stroked himself with the hand that had been in Geno, and Geno was pretty sure watching him stand there in his kitchen, saliva from the blow job glistening off his chest while he worked himself up with his dirty hand, was the hottest, most overwhelming thing Geno had ever seen. Period.

****

“Mark.”

****

Mark shook his head, his eyes falling shut as his brow furrowed, hand speeding up, chest moving faster as his breath sped up. He moved back in toward Geno, opened his eyes to look at him, and then Geno felt him there, right-

****

“ _Mark_.”

****

Mark pressed into him and Geno regretted rushing him, just a little. He quickly pushed away the thought that, yeah, maybe he should have gone for the cooking oil.

****

It had been far too long.

****

Mark had always been good about getting all the way into him and giving him a second, but he’d always been a fucking tease on top of that, running his thumb over Geno’s balls, grinding his hips without thrusting. Every time they had done this, Geno had begged Mark to get going against his better judgment, all based on thumbs pressing into the slit in his head or teeth tugging at his nipples.

****

This time was no different, as Mark ran the tip of his tongue up a tendon in Geno’s neck, only exposed because Mark had forced his head back and to the side to get at it in the first place. Geno gasped, “Mark. _Please_.”

****

Geno’s other leg was up around Mark’s waist on the first thrust, Mark’s fingers digging into the back of Geno’s knee. And then Mark was off, pounding into him, as if they had done this just yesterday. Geno flailed, couldn’t keep himself upright on the counter without grabbing hold of Mark’s shoulders, the counter, and holding on for dear life. His back and abs burned from the effort needed so he didn’t fall back, didn’t scream out _holy fuck_ , didn’t smack his head again from the force of Mark’s thrusts.

****

Mark’s lips were everywhere, anywhere, wherever he could get them. On his face, his neck, his throat. Geno dug his fingers into Mark’s shoulder when Mark’s teeth grazed his Adam’s apple, and Mark flinched his upper body away, hips momentarily losing their rhythm. “Fuck, don’t-”

****

“Forgot….forgot…,” Geno apologized, unable to say anything else as the breath was forced out of him on every ram of Mark’s hips.

****

Mark licked the shell of his ear, tugged at his earlobe. Mark rearranged his legs the slightest bit, completely fucking up the angle Geno had just begun adjusting to, hitting him in a totally different spot. Geno screamed out.

****

“'Forgot' my _ass_ , G. Trying to make it hurt, huh?” He emphasized the accusation by digging his fingers into Geno’s legs.

****

Geno’s hand slid up to wrap around the back of Mark’s neck. “No,” he forced, “never...couldn't for-,” Mark got his other leg up on his good shoulder, dug his nails into Geno’s hip -- “holy shit!” -- Geno took several deep breaths, grabbed his own cock to slow the entire thing down, somehow resisting the urge to stroke himself silly. “Couldn’t forget _that_ ass, Sanchez,” Geno gasped out.

****

Mark laughed, deep and warm and sudden. “So fucking mouthy.” He kissed Geno hard, dirty, his tongue so far into his mouth that he nearly choked, before pulling back. “Want my ass?”

****

Geno groaned, the thought of getting his dick up Mark’s ass, the only place he’d never had it...

****

“That’s not happening, G,” Mark growled into his ear, hips suddenly working double time. “Not tonight. Just your ass. This tight fucking ass. Only mine.”

****

Geno yelped and nodded. His hand gave up on his brain’s fight to keep it from moving.

****

“Gonna get yourself off, G? Gonna get off while I’m in you, hm?”

****

“Shut the fuck up, Mark!”

****

Mark’s hand abandoned Geno’s hip in favor of shoving three fingers into his mouth, gagging him a little. “ _You_ shut the fuck up. You fucking love it. You never want me to shut the fuck up. You never get to tell me what to do. I’m your _captain_ , right G?” Mark licked at Geno’s lips around his own fingers. “Never the other way. Never the other fucking way, kid.” Mark pulled away, burying his face in Geno’s neck, hips going erratic, fingers moving in Geno’s mouth, breaths puffing out against his collarbone. “Never get to tell me what to do. Never. You fucking love it.”

****

Geno saw stars, coming with Mark’s fingers pulling at his cheek from the inside, Mark’s cock only half inside him, his own fist at the head of his cock. He gasped around Mark’s fingers, and suddenly they were gone, Mark’s lips back on his, his tongue running slowly across his in complete contrast with the way he was punishing Geno.

****

Geno let go of his cock, the mere sensation of grasping it loosely was far too much. Mark pulled away from him, looked him in the eye, and even in his post-orgasmic haze, Geno noticed the wild, awed look in Mark’s eyes.

****

“Feel so good. So good.” Mark pounded into him, and suddenly, that was it. Mark’s hips stilled and he bit into Geno’s shoulder, pulled Geno in even closer by the ass, and held him there.

****

Geno moaned at the sting of Mark’s fingers digging into muscle, gasped his name.

****

Mark didn’t let go, tense and unmoving. Geno got his hands around him, but Mark suddenly pulled him to the very edge of the counter, stepped back and pulled out all at once. Geno’s feet scrambled to find the floor, but he wasn’t quick enough, and he sank, ass hitting the cold tile.

****

Geno looked up, stunned. Mark took another step back on fawn’s legs, looking blankly down at him, breathing heavily. “Mark…”

****

Mark shook his head, looked around for a second like he didn’t know what had just happened. Like he wasn’t the reason Geno was on the ground. Geno tried to get up, but his legs were too shaky. “Mark.”

****

Mark was pulling on his pants, slipping shoes onto sockless feet, hands shaking.

****

“Mark. Stop. What’s wrong?”

****

Mark grabbed the first shirt he found -- Geno’s sweater -- and pulled it over his head. Using the counter, Geno managed to pull himself up and step closer. “Mark.”

****

Mark stepped back, foot getting caught in the silky lining of his long-forgotten jacket. He lost his footing and Geno reached out to keep him from falling. Mark allowed that to go on for less than a second, before regaining his balance and swooping down to grab his coat.

****

“Mark! Don’t-”

****

He was out of the kitchen in a flurry of jacket being pulled on. Geno slumped back against the cabinets when he heard the front door slam a moment later.

****

That had gone...well.

**Author's Note:**

> The Jets don't have captains.
> 
> Slut-shaming is bad and there's a little of that in here. Sorry.
> 
> Also, use condoms. And lube. And like, prep appropriately.


End file.
